Luck Is a Lady of Very Poor Repute
by Queen of Dreaming
Summary: January, 2025. Kurt Hummel gets a desperate phone call from a woman he hasn't spoken with in years.


Title: Luck is a Lady of Very Poor Repute  
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (R for language), discussion of prostitution, some spoilers (up to Furt).  
Word Count: 3,000**  
**A/N: This was intended as commentfic over at **avoidmynose**'s Kurt and Rachel appreciation post on LiveJournal. Many comments-worth of fic later...

_January 3, 2025_

"Who the hell is this?" Kurt demanded, staring at his phone as if it had sprouted fangs.

"Rachel. Rachel Berry. Remember me?" The voice sounded cracked and stuffed and on the edge of crying.

"Rachel... of course I remember, you spent five years making out on my couch with my brother. Why are you calling, and how did you get this number?"

"Finn and I still talk every few months. I asked him."

"And he _gave_ it to you? That's... never mind. Why are you calling me at eleven o'clock at night?"

The sigh on the other end of the phone sounded dangerously close to a sob. "If you ever tell anyone from Lima that I said this, I will make sure I find a way to destroy you somehow, but – I just got kicked out of my apartment for the third time this winter, I have no money, I'm going to freeze to death out here, and you're the only one in this city who hasn't threatened to shoot me if I begged for help again. Except for the ones who introduced themselves as John Doe. Please, let me stay for a little while, just until I can pick up enough cash to get a new apartment. I'll pay you back however you need."

Kurt had to sit down to process all that. He hadn't thought about Rachel Berry since college, but he remembered her as a personified stampede of arrogance and entitlement and determination and, yes, talent. He did _not_ want to know how she ended up homeless and evidently at least dabbling in prostitution on the streets of New York. Further, he hadn't talked to her since high school and they weren't especially close back then. Why on earth would he take her in?

As he leaned against the wall and rubs his forehead, biting back a groan, his elbow bumped into the framed diploma from Dalton hanging alongside the other awards and portraits. It made him groan, it reminded him of an incident a few weeks after he left McKinley. That jock guy there'd been trouble with, whatever his name was. Rachel had been suspended trying to get revenge for Kurt.

Ridiculous. It was half a lifetime ago. He hadn't talked to her for most of that, either. He owed her nothing.

They used to be so alike, and no matter how many crammed-away memories he dragged out, he couldn't recall a single reason it should be Rachel, rather than himself, making this frantic call.

"This is very, very temporary," he sighed, knowing he was making an absurd and possibly dangerous decision. High school friends or not, she was a stranger now.

When she arrived, towing a battered suitcase and wiping at her eyes with stained and threadbare gloves, she didn't look dangerous. She looked like she'd been through hell, which she probably had. Painfully cheap mascara provided evidence that yes, she had been crying when she called him. She was only wearing a light fall jacket that had probably been purchased third or fourth-hand, and she looked even smaller than he remembered.

"I'm sorry about this," she whispered, hunching her shoulders against the opulence of the apartment building's lobby. That flustered him for the thousandth time tonight as she clashed again with his memories of confidence and certainty.

"It's all right," he heard himself lie. "Come on, let's get you upstairs." They were the same age, but she looked younger than he remembered her. Not physically, God no, but something about the lost way she gazed around her made her seem as helpless as a child.

The elevator ride was awkward enough to choke them, but Kurt tried to ignore it as he studied his new guest. One hand touched the polished wood in a sort of unconscious wonder; she kept her eyes away from the three mirrors, which meant inspecting the plush carpet of the floor.

She seemed even more tense in his apartment, staring around the living room as if she expected the simple, neutral lines and colors to morph into a monster and consume her. Kurt tugged the coat off of her frozen form, a half-conscious manifestation of the gentlemanly habits developed to charm interviewers and magazine columnists. (It had worked.)

"Would you like anything to eat?" he asked, mostly to fill the silence. This was insane. She nodded, letting go of her battered suitcase and wringing her hands. "Come on," he offered, "there's food in the kitchen."

He had to take her hand and pull her, and she looked just as terrified of the new room. She perched tentatively on the edge of one of the leather-topped counter stools, still hugging herself. He ignored her rabbit-in-the-headlights look, and tossed his leftover pasta with into the microwave with a dollop of extra cheese sauce.

When he slid it in front of her and she picked up the fork, he thought it might be the first time she'd moved without urging since she set foot in his home. He stared at her for a minute as she inhaled the food, then got up and reached for one of the glossy bottles in the elegant silver rack. "Wine?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, thank you. I don't - I knew if I got started, I might never stop, and I swore not to become that particular cliché."

"Ah." He sat, he poured himself a very full glass and took a deep drink of it, eyes closed. Oh, how he wished there was a protocol for this situation. After a few more moments of incredibly awkward silence (except for the clink of her fork), he asked the only question that didn't seem likely to cause an explosion of miserable stories. "Do you still sing?"

She looked up at him in shock, face crumpling, then buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. No, more like wailing. He practically fell out of his chair, sloshing what remained of his wine onto the counter, and hovered. _Fuck_, what did he get himself into?

"It's all right," he attempted, "it's... all right. You're, ah, you're safe now?" That only made her cry harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Heart hammering, he settled his hand on her shoulder, hoping it wouldn't set off some kind of flashback. She didn't get any _more_ tense, at least, just kept crying as he stood there in a frozen panic. Something about the paralysis of the moment made him notice everything about her - the tastelessly low neckline of her blouse, the short skirt, five-dollar heels, greasy hair brushing against his hand. He remembered again what she'd said about John Does. How did this happen to her?

Eventually she seemed to have cried herself out. Scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her arm, she turned her mottled and soaked face to him. "God, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he managed. "Here, here -" He handed her a paper towel, and she blew her nose gustily. "Here, the guest room is through there, and I bet a shower and a good night's sleep will make everything feel better, right?" She nodded weakly, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her in the correct direction. "There, soap is in the shower, I'll bring you some shampoo and conditioner and fish out some pajamas, and then you can just get some rest and we can work it all out in the morning. All right?"

Still nodding vaguely, she let him steer her. The instant the bathroom door closed behind the hair-care projects and the least baggy pajamas he owned, he bolted for his own room and the phone.

"_Finn Hudson,_ " Kurt snapped, "why is your high-school ex-girlfriend homeless and sobbing in my apartment?"

There was a lengthy and bizarre pause.

_"What?"_

The next morning Kurt was awake by nine, despite the entirely unhelpful three-hour conversation with Finn the night before. Shambling into the living room, he discovered that this frighteningly ruined Rachel was not, in fact, a nightmare. She was standing in front of his landscape window, entirely consumed by his pajamas, hands folded behind her back as if she were in an art museum.

"Good morning," he mumbled. She jumped, curling in on herself again when she saw him. He didn't know how else to describe the motion - head down, shoulders hunched, arms folded, as if she were trying to hide behind herself. He didn't want to deal with this, not when he was still tired.

"Coffee?" he asked, already heading for the kitchen. She nodded.

"Please." At least he didn't have to drag her in there this time.

Several minutes later, they were both slumped at the counter, equipped with (bran) muffins as well as the mugs of coffee. Rachel ran a finger around the neat square edge of her plate, barely looking at her host. He sighed.

"So. How long has this been going on?"

She glanced up. "What do you mean?"

"This. What happened to you, Rachel?"

She dropped her head, clutching at her coffee. "I didn't make it, I guess."

"But..." He bit his lip, boggling again at the idea of Rachel Berry, _Rachel Berry_ defeated. Last night's conversation had dusted off his old mental picture of her and reminded him how stubbornly indomitable she used to be. "Weren't you going to Tisch?"

"I did. But..." She shrank in on herself even more, shaking her hair in front of her face. "I couldn't get work."

Kurt sighed and drained his coffee, glad he'd made a full pot. "Last night you mentioned... johns?" Oh, Lord, he couldn't have this conversation.

At least she straightened and met his eyes. "Yes. Sometimes." Catching the shocked look at his face, she added, "It wasn't that bad. Just another role. I based my persona off of Santana." It was strange, the casual way she named their old classmate. It wasn't that he'd forgotten Santana, but he simply didn't speak to her; they'd never kept in touch. He really doubted Rachel had stayed any closer.

Rachel seemed to think he was still reacting to the prostitution issue (which should have been the case), because she continued, "It wasn't a constant thing, or a regular thing. Only when I was really desperate. Trying to get work with a director who hinted it would help, or when I couldn't pay the rent."

He ran over last night's conversation and guessed that meant it had been fairly frequent lately. "How long have you been this..." _Desperate._ "How long has it been this difficult?"

"A couple of years after college. I couldn't keep asking my dads, and I couldn't find the money."

"You said your friends stopped helping you?" That sounded horrible once he said it. More coffee, now.

"Well, yes. I asked my college roommates for a bit, stayed with a few boys, but..." She shrugged, draining her coffee. He realized she'd demolished her muffin, and passed her another.

"And that was it?"

She glared at him, which was actually a relief. "Yes. It was."

"And how did you know I was in New York, anyway? I'm afraid we haven't really talked in a long time."

"I keep tabs on all of you as much as is possible when my sources are limited to the media," she non-explained, breaking her muffin into pieces and practically gobbling them.

"Keep tabs on - "

"Oh, nothing twisted or disturbed. Just whatever facts are available through the Internet. It varies; usually I don't find much, but you're quite visible."

"No, I meant - " he struggled. "Who do you 'keep tabs on'?"

"All of you who were in glee," she explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He gaped at her. He hadn't shared a glee club with Rachel Berry for fifteen years, and yet she kept track of him because of it – because of a part of his life that was already distant and almost irrelevant.

He didn't want to think about what that meant.

"Do you know anyone else here, or anywhere?" he asked desperately.

"I won't stay long," she promised, knuckles whitening around her mug. "Just a few days, until I can find some kind of work. I promise not to bring anyone back to your apartment for it."

"No, no, that isn't what I meant. You're welcome to stay as long as you like." She wasn't, he wanted his ordinary, non-dramatic life back, but...

They'd sung together in his first two years of high school, and she'd dated his stepbrother over a decade ago, and that made him her closest friend in this city. He couldn't turn away someone that miserably alone.

"Stay as long as you need," he repeated, resting a hand over hers. "I'll help you find a job. I know I can find a position for you at the company – it won't be glamorous, but it'll pay the bills."

She smiled at him – no, at a spot next to him, refusing to meet his eyes. "Thank you. That will be wonderful." He could feel the tension in her fingers, clenching under his.

"And once you have your feet under you," he continued, "a friend of mine from college designs costumes on Broadway, and he knows several directors. I suspect I could get you a few auditions where you'd have a bit of an advantage."

For a moment the kitchen was very, very quiet. Then Rachel practically dove at Kurt, nearly knocking him off the chair as she hugged him as hard as she possibly could. He clutched at the counter and tried to retain his balance, suppressing a curse.

"Thank you," she breathed, burying her face in his shoulder. "Thank you _so much._"

"I can't promise you anything," he choked. "I mean, I'll do my best, but –"

"It doesn't matter! I mean, it does, of course it does, but I never thought I'd ever even get a _chance_ again. Never." She pulled back suddenly, biting her lip. "Do – do you really think that I –"

"I think that with the right opportunity you'll be the star of the century," he lied. It was a possibility, at least.

And besides, he didn't think he'd ever anyone look so disbelievingly happy in his life.

"Thank you, Kurt."

He finished off the current mug of coffee and then hesitated, trying to gauge her mental state. "I'm going to need a refresher on the exact parameters of your abilities, however. I remember that you were talented, but not all of the specifics."

"I understand. What do you want me to sing?"

"Anything you want." He hadn't thought about this whole affair beyond the basic steps. "I've got a lot of instrumentals on my computer. Just pick one."

She slid off her chair and headed back towards the living room, obviously a million miles away. Kurt rubbed his forehead again, stuck their dishes in the sink, and followed her.

She was standing by his computer already, hands folded in front of her. "Ready?"

He dropped into his favorite chair and swiveled it towards her. "When you are."

She hit play, then half-floated into the middle of the room to the opening notes of a song Kurt recognized instantly – the lead single off Lady Gaga's comeback album. It seemed fitting.

"Someone else is on my stage…" He bit his lip at the anxiety in her voice, but the song started off quietly anyway, so perhaps it would be all right. He realized she'd positioned herself quite dramatically; in front of the window, with the midday light illuminating her and the city as a backdrop. Did she do it on purpose?

"And all the past seems unimaginably mad," Rachel continued, sounding better now. Still sad, but that was right for the song, and she seemed set on telling a story. Good. He leaned back and relaxed into the music as she built more and more towards the bridge.

"But I will not let you forget me, I will not let you forget me, I will not, not, not, not, not, I will be, I will be, I will be, I will be, I will be, I will be – " She hesitated, and Kurt dug his arms into the side of the chair. This was the part of the song that got everyone's attention.

"UN-FOR-GET-TAH-BLE!" And she held it. She held it from the beginning and let it build and build and build. Kurt found himself counting – eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Past the original, and still building.

"I said _unforgettable_, baby!" she still had breath to yell, and for that moment it didn't matter that she had shadows under her eyes and coffee on the edge of her mouth and her arms were completely lost in her borrowed pajama sleeve. She stood there flushed and beaming with all of New York City behind her, and she had just gone from overwhelmed and lost to fighting and victorious in the space of three minutes.

Applauding wasn't even a choice; it was completely impossible to do anything else.

"That was absolutely incredible," he pronounced. "How long have you been practicing that?"

For some reason, that made her study the fawn-colored carpet again. "I haven't been."

"What?"

She bit her lip. "I haven't been able to listen to that song in months."

"So…" He felt dense for having to ask, but it was difficult to process. "Are you telling me you pulled that performance out of absolutely nowhere?"

A proud smile was struggling to take control of her face, and she met his eyes at last. "Yes, I did."

He had to laugh in proud astonishment. "Rachel Berry, I am going to make you _rule_ this city."


End file.
